writing

Overheard on the bus

her: reading something earnestly to him from her phone

him: not really listening – “What? Street kids? They don’t care.”

i can’t see her face, but i can feel her horrified stare

him: “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Of course they care.”

he goes back to his phone – she carries on glaring for a bit and then returns to her’s

a few seconds go by

him: “What I meant to say was, they don’t matter.”


Signs of summer

Today was the warmest day yet. I saw my first butterfly and heard the sound of the first ice cream van of the year – I hate those noisy bastards, and I don’t like ice cream vans either.


Is this why women don’t stick around?

“i see there’s no milk in the fridge!”
“how can you see what isn’t there?”
“what?”
“if it’s not there, how can you see it?”
“i can see you haven’t bought any bloody milk!”
“how?”
“’cause it’s not there, fuck nuts!”
“i know, i forgot, but what does no milk look like?”
“like no milk!”
“but if it’s not there, how can you see it’s not milk? it might be not eggs that you’re looking at.”
“did you forget the fucking eggs too!?”
“what does it look like?”


Old Gay John

I bumped into an old mate today, someone I haven’t seen in years. He told me that Old Gay John had died. Old Gay John was one of the guys that used to hang around on the corner, way back when I first moved here. He wasn’t gay, we just called him that because he hated it so much. He wasn’t old or called John either.


Is it still a haiku if it rhymes?

who needs poetry
when all it takes is just three
little words from me


He who laughs last

i was brought up in a small coastal town in kent and was a teenager during the seventies there. it was a very violent time and place, more violent even, than my time in the army. there wasn’t a single day when someone didn’t get beaten up. sometimes i got beat up and sometimes i beat someone up. sometimes both in one day. it was how things were: the hard guys got the girls, and the weedy ones didn’t. it was a culture driven by hormones, by violence and by pussy.

the other day i was down there, when a guy called clive approached me in a pub. he recognised me after nearly 40 years, and he wanted to apologise for having bullied me at school. i remembered instantly how he had once dragged me behind some shops and kicked me to the floor and carried on kicking until i vomited with pain. i remember the pleasure he got from it. i remember how he’d made my life hell for a whole summer.  he grew up with two drunken parents, and every day, at home, he witnessed and experienced violence. he saw his mum punched in the face. he saw his sisters stripped and beaten and raped, and he got beaten.

there was never any violence in my home. it was a peaceful place. once, my granddad slapped me across the face with a rolled up porn mag he had found, hidden, in my room. i was 5 inches taller than him at the time and 15. he was in his sixties. it stung for a few seconds and left a mark for a few minutes. it was nothing.

i got my own back on clive by pretending that i didn’t recall him. he’d spent serious chunks of his adult life regretting things he’d done as a child. all he wanted was a chance at redemption. it would have been so easy to forgive him but so much more rewarding to have him think that i didn’t even remember him.


What a cunt!

“cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt. cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt? cunt! cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt… cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt! cunt?”

“and that’s supposed to be what?”

“modern art, apparently”

“seriously?”

“seems so.”

“what a cunt!”


A million light years

i fuck you so hard that you have to grab hold of the furniture, just to stay upright, just to stay conscious. we fuck so hard that the whole room rattles with our raw lust. glass, crockery and paper fly. cupboards burst open, their contents dashing themselves recklessly on the floor in an uncontrolled carnal symphony. shelves collapse. glasses explode. the window shatters. candles inexplicably ignite themselves. the light bulb above our head glows fiercely, before exploding and showering us with tiny shards, and as we come, cars crash outside. alarms go off. hydrants erupt. several people nearby have heart attacks. power stations burst into flames. tsunamis and earthquakes wipe out millions. new craters appear on the moon. black holes, swallow solar systems, and stars are born in a distant gas cloud a million light years away.


Good boy

you are on top, riding me – its our first time and we fit like a candle and a flame – our orgasms build together and, as they rise, like duel tsunamis so mighty they could tear whole continents apart, you slap me, hard across the face.

i jump in shock and pain at first, and my body jolts, ramming my cock even harder into you. i only get a second to see the pleasure this brings you before you slap me again, with the other hand and harder. my orgasm is poleaxed, although i keep on spurting into you, my prick pulsing harder than ever. your orgasm, though, seems magnified by your power, and you erupt on top of me, and your climax hits you like a huge swarm of desert birds hits the sky when excited by a storm. you call me disgusting names. you spit straight into my face and slap me again and again. then you ball up your fist and raise it up. i can see how much you want to bring it slamming down, just by looking into your eyes. you would bloody my nose, maybe even break it. our eyes lock and i brace myself. i see just how hard you have to work to stop yourself.  your eyes burn with a love very few know. the love of giving and taking pain. i see, in your eyes and heart, how hard it is not to punch me with all your force and i know that i love you.

after, we lay together and kiss. your eyes still burn as hot as your pussy and i know that next time you might not be able to hold back. next time you will want more of me. then we kiss and cuddle and you tell me i am a good boy, and that everything will be ok. just as i fall peacefully asleep, you punch me in the balls.

that is when i realise, just how much i love you.


The rain

the rain came down like bullets – every drop was as big as a pea and i just watched as it kicked up the dust and scared the shit out of the spiders and even a cat


An old favourite

 

Word whore

i want to write
something dirty to you
make you come with my words
i really do

line by line
and letter by letter
every pulsating word
making you wetter

each dripping syllable
thrilling you more
touch yourself with my words
be my filthy word whore


Eurotrash douche hipster

I got my first piece of hate mail, and I have to say I was as delighted as I was proud. Bravely commenting as an anonymous user on my recent poem about breasts, this brilliant fellow called me a Eurotrash, douche hipster who looks like a sloppy version of DeNiro’s character in Taxi Driver. I almost peed myself  with delight. I am seriously considering using this quote on my about page. I tried to track him down, so I could thank him properly, but his IP address only led me to Baltimore. I have a few pals there, but I know it can’t be any of them, as they can all actually write.  Really, I would recommend reading the whole comment, it is hilarious and there is a wonderful line about me writing horrible poetry about sex to make up for my lack of a life. Feel free to reply to his lovely comment, and, if you are reading Mr Anonymous, please come back and say more, I think you are fantastic and I would love to give you a guest spot.


Filled

you filled my mind today
and you filled my heart
you filled my pants too


Dear God

Dear god,

Sorry to break it to you like this, but I think that you’re a bit of a cunt. Okay, sure, you created the universe, and I have to say that I’m jolly impressed, but why did you have to ruin it by acting like such a dick? You’re jealous and shallow and bitter and twisted. Your commandments are almost totally self serving. Craven images? Really? taking your name in vain? Get over yourself you wanker! Do you really think we need tablets of stone to tell us that lying and stealing and killing are wrong?  Seriously dude, I know fucking eight year olds who could figure that out, and killing? What about Jericho? Every living thing, you had slaughtered, women, babies, even the fucking cattle, you lying hypocritical motherfucker, and what of rape and slavery and racism and child abuse? Don’t see a fucking mention of that in your bloody commandments, and what is it with that boy of yours? You decided we were sinners, not us. You decided we needed redeeming, we were quite fucking happy thanks, until you stuck your almighty nose in, and look how you chose to save us, you sick cunt, by torturing your own son to death! You need fucking help buddy, seriously. You have caused nothing but pain and anguish and suffering and guilt and countless war and death, ever since you showed up. If you really care about us (and I seriously doubt you do, you are too wrapped up in yourself to be able to really care) then please, just fuck off and go annoy someone else, or, ideally, just put a fucking bullet in that sick and twisted brain of yours.

Yours. very sincerely

Kyle.

PS. Thanks for the cookies, the missus says to say that the cinnamon was the perfect touch.

PPS. Stop watching me when I masturbate, you fucking pervert.


The seven deadly things

I said long ago, that I would no longer be accepting blogger awards, and it wasn’t because I thought that they were a pointless (but very imaginative and caring) form of chain letter, but because  being nominated gives me such an almighty erection that,  I would fear for my mortal safety, were I to be nominated more than once in quick succession. It is only thanks to the swift action, and early arrival, of my cleaning lady, Mrs Go’onanonanonagan (87 but with the tits of an 85 year old), that I was not later discovered drowned in a pool of my own semen, after having received three such awards within the space of a single afternoon.

As I lay here in my hospital bed, recovering from an ego overdose, I think it only fair that I respond to Rhonda from Help Me Rhonda (The Seven Things About Me Award), Maureen from Magnolia Beginnings (The Five Best Books Ever Award) and Mad Gay Man from Diary of a Mad Gay Man (Bitches Love Awards Award), for their flattering and honouring nominations.

As per my doctor’s orders, I will respond to each nomination with a post of its own and start with Rhonda’a ‘Seven Things About Me Award’.

The rules of this award require me to first thank the nominee, then to reveal seven embarrassing facts about myself and finally to nominate 463 other bloggers.

Thank you Rhonda:

Rhonda’s blog, Help Me Rhonda, is a witty, sweet and charming, daily dose of life-affirming wisdom and side-splitting humour, beautifully taken photographs and cleverly observed anecdotes. If you have not yet discovered her, then do so now, or I will have you cruelly murdered.

Seven things:

  1. I could read by the age of three. I kinda taught myself but was encouraged and helped by my family, who seemed to think I was possibly some kind of prodigy. Sadly it was my only trick, I simply had to learn “how to do words”, and after that I was, academically, something of a disappointment.
  2. I know 30 different ways to kiss – 31, if you include ‘on the mouth.’
  3. I think its wrong to use poetry or art to get into a woman’s head. It’s much better to use them to get into a woman’s pants.
  4. I  once was a cartoonist, for a chain of pot-selling coffee shops in the Netherlands. I used to get paid in pot and only got the job because the previous incumbent had been tied to his push-bike, by the Dutch Mafia , and thrown into a canal. A very Dutch way to die, their bikes are very heavy.
  5. I had a girlfriend who ran off with my best friend, and I still miss him.
  6. I have a notepad and pen in every room in the house. It’s because I never know when I will have an idea. I even have a notepad in the lavatory. Once, after taking a large amount of magic mushrooms, I discovered the secret to life there and, obviously, wrote it down. The following morning, upon realising  that I had run out of toilet paper, I had to use it to wipe my arse. Well? What would you have done?
  7. I have no idea what the pre-wash function on my washing machine is for.

Nominations:

Normally I claim to be unable to nominate anyone because I never bother reading any of the shite you all write. This is not actually true. I do, I avidly, read every word of all your blogs. The reason I can’t nominate anyone is because I am simply too lazy and way too busy masturbating over your gravatar images.


Coming soon

Tell me what you want to read and I will oblige…

Thanks


The kiss

we stood there on a late night tube, as it rattled its way between camden town and euston, and kissed. it was one of the best kisses i ever had. it was gentle but passionate, not deep and tonguey but full and sweet.

we had met just five minutes earlier. we had been sat opposite each other. we were both a little drunk and we were both reading the same book, hesse’s narziss and goldmund. its a book i read over. its about two men, narziss and goldmund. narziss is a scholar and lives in a monastery all his life. his friend, goldmund, is an adventurer who escapes from the monastery and fucks and fights his way across mediaeval europe. he breaks a lot of hearts and gets his broken a lot too, he falls in love with every woman he ever fucks. he becomes a sculptor and survives wars and plagues. he is not really a good man but he is a man to his core.

she got off at king’s cross and i never saw her again.


what i was trying to say but just said better than i could


Folder holder

i turn up at your workplace, no flowers or chocolates, just a grin on my face. i want to know if you have a stationery cupboard. you giggle and blush, but you lead me there anyway.

inside, i push you roughly against the steel shelving and the foolscap foldering and  drop to my knees. i lift your skirt and pull down your already dripping panties and start to kiss your waiting pussy. my tongue laps at you hungrily and your lust grows inside you and your hands grip tighter at the shaky steel scaffolding of our metal and cardboard love nest. paper clips begin to rattle in their boxes, soft, shiny leaf holders quiver in their coloured cases. staples shudder and hole punchers grind as your orgasm rises and your knees tremble in time with the thrusting of your pussy, and the rattling of the loose, grey shelving, as you fuck my face, folder holders and post its fall and flutter around your face mirroring the vivid tingling of your orgasm as you grit your teeth and savour the rushes of your pussy as your whole soul is washed with wave after wave of hot, bursting shudders. you bite your lip hard to stop yourself calling my name, so hard that you leave the only tell-tale sign of our liason, a tiny drop of love red blood on my shaven head.

your workmate doesn’t notice it when he knocks on the door and all he sees when he comes in is me, on all fours, helping you find your contact lens.

i ask you if i can get a stamp for my parking permit. with a giggle and a wink, you tell me, “not a fucking chance.”


Make friends with your demons

I don’t do the blogger award thing as a rule, I worry about the exponential growth inherent in such systems. Do the math; if every blogger given an award nominates seven other bloggers, and they each nominate seven more and so on, then within two weeks, every WordPress blogger on the planet will have received that award (there are over 72 million WordPress blogs). Within a month, we will have all been nominated over a 100 times.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love being nominated, I love having my ego stroked, (although I prefer to have it sucked,) and I get so flattered that I have to jack off every time I get a nomination, and that’s the problem, too many awards and my ego would just collapse under the weight of all that love and I would most likely be discovered dead by my cleaning lady, having drowned in my own semen. Not a pleasant clean up job for anybody, as I’m sure you can imagine.

However, today I am making an exception and not because I think I am worthy of the award but because of who has nominated me: the wonderful Gypsy, author of the outstanding Through my eyes: Adventures in Borderline land. Her blog truly is outstanding, unlike my trivial and masturbatory attempts at entertaining you, her blog is a powerful, poignant, heartfelt and heart-warming journal of her struggles and victories over Borderline Personality Disorder.

Gypsy nominated me for the “Outstanding Blogger Award”, the rules are as follows:

  • Thank the nominee.
  • Share something important about yourself.
  • Nominate other bloggers.

Thank you Gypsy: your blog is just awesome. It is straightforward and honest and bursting with emotion and you have helped far more people than you realise by documenting your life so bravely. Thank you.

Thank you also for encouraging me to write this next bit. Its about something I’ve never written about before (well not publicly) and if it weren’t for you, I may never have.

Something important: I was an addict. For years, I threw a large chunk of my adult life down a big dark hole. I have never written about it before because I still carry a lot of shame for having wasted so much of a life who’s every second should be savoured and not squandered.

Addiction nearly killed me, it turned me into a liar and a thief and a cheat and a rascal. I lied and stole mostly to and from the people that loved me the most, well, who tried to love me anyway, its not easy to love someone when they hate themselves. In the end I drove everyone away with my snivelling self-pity and misdirected anger.

Every day I would wake and promise myself, ‘no more’ and every day, before noon, I would have failed. The failure sapped me dry Every day, month after month, year after year, failure after failure. I lost all faith in myself. My soul nearly disappeared, I nearly extinguished my own humanity. In the end there was just this tiny, flickering spark of it left, cowering deep inside me.

One day, I decided to face my demons head on. It was that or die. seriously. I tossed a coin: heads, I go seek help (again), tails, I end it all. You can guess how it landed, and I re-entered that mill of detox and rehab and therapy and those fucking rooms. Somehow it clicked, and is still clicking five years down the road. Maybe it was because I had driven everyone away and had to do it on my own. Maybe it was because I knew the alternative was to die, but actually I think it was because I discovered the true nature of my demons. They were not the fearsome devils of my nightmares. They were not powerful angry, ugly monsters. They were me, me when I was young, and hurt and sad, the neglected me and the scared me. They were little me and they hurt. They didn’t need battling, they needed  loving and accepting.

I didn’t really change, and I’m still a complete shit-bag – just ask any woman I’ve ever dated – I just learned to accept me and enjoy being me, love me even. Life hasn’t really changed that much either, there is still as much sadness and pain as there ever was, but there is laughter and love too.

Nominate other bloggers: I’m not going to nominate anyone else for this award, and its not because I don’t want to, its just that I don’t know who to nominate, because I never actually bother to read any of the shit you all write.

Thanks again to Gypsy for the honour. Everyone please visit, like, comment and follow her wonderful blog, or I will have you brutally killed and your corpse fed to your pets in front of your children.



Swoon

swoon Look up swoon at Dictionary.comlate 13c., swogene, probably from O.E. geswogen “in a faint,” pp. of a lost verb, perhaps *swogan, as in aswogan “to choke,” of uncertain origin. Cf. Low Ger. swogen “to sigh.”

i wanna make you swoon
i wanna make you come
i wanna make you
come so hard
that you scream
and then pass out

i wanna make you
feel so loved
that you can
no longer think
i wanna fuck you
into a coma
i wanna lick you
’til you feint


Porn stars

When we were in Belize there were these Americans making this movie, Dogs of War, I think it was called. Christopher Walken was in it, I remember that. Anyway, it was based somewhere in Africa but the political situation was too sensitive there or something and they filmed it in Belize instead, where all the foliage was more or less the same. The director, John Irvin, or someone like that came to our camp, wanting soldiers to act as extras.

Obviously, we all wanted to be in it and all lined up hoping to get a part as dead soldier #23 or limping soldier #37 or whatever. Cuddles and I were hoping for ‘soldier getting a blow job in background’. This guy Irvin was very disappointed with what he saw, said we didn’t look like soldiers, said we looked like a bunch of spotty teenagers. Sad fact is that that’s what most soldiers do look like, spotty teenagers. Our Sergeant Major did his nut. “What do you mean, they don’t look like proper soldiers, you fucking homo?!” he ranted, “Have you any idea how many battles these men have been in?” Irvin was unimpressed, he wanted gnarled looking 40 somethings, not spotty teenagers.

Afterwards Cuddles and I chatted up some of the production assistants and Cuddles landed us auditions in a low budget porn movie, “Nymphoid Barbarians in Dinosaur Hell III”. I was reluctant, “I don’t have a big enough dick.” I argued but he said that it didn’t matter, as long as I could maintain wood. Now, that was one thing I could do, so I went along with it. The auditions went like this:

I stood there, naked and erect, in front of a group of strangers, they all laughed and pointed and told me they’d let me know. Cuddle’s audition went a little better, they were impressed with what they saw and it only went bad when they suggested that he performed a gay scene. Needless to say, some noses got broken and we were lucky that we were on good terms with the local chief of police.

Cuddles and I went back to soldiering, back to what we knew and what we were good at. We never became porn stars, we never should have. He would whip it out, nevertheless, on occasion.”See that?” he’d challenge everyone, “I could have been fuckin’ famous for that!” He was right too, he could.

more from this series


Team work

ron and i used to work as a team. he’d help get me girls and i’d help him get boys. we had a whole bunch of routines worked out. at least one of us would nearly always get laid and often both of us would. occasionally though neither of us would get any, usually when we’d got too wasted and spent our night losing money on the pool table or chucking it into one of those machines that lets you play commando with a bright blue plastic gun.

on such nights, we used to hang out in these neat under-the-railway-arches clubs in vauxhall and would often wind up at his flat in clapham, or balham, or one of those places. It was a one room flat: kitchen, living room, bedroom, all rolled into one, and I generally crashed on the couch.

one night ron says, “why don’t you come sleep here?” in his big double bed – and i have to confess, that the smell of those freshly-washed, 700 denier, egyptian cotton sheets was appealing. i climbed in next to him, half expecting what was to come.

he began to run his hand softly over my back and i turned to face him and we kissed. the sensation of stubble against my cheeks was a new one to me but not unpleasant. he was a great kisser and i was surprised at how easily i had become erect. he pushed himself close to me and our cocks pressed into each other, his was magnificent and i could feel it and throb against mine. I took it in my hand, feeling it pulse and bulge and began to kiss his chest and belly. He pushed playfully at my head, urging me down towards his rigid member. I kissed it and ran my tongue wetly along its length and then slipped it into my mouth. ron pushed my head down onto it and fucked my face roughly, telling me how much the sounds of my gagging turned him on. we were not there to make love and he came quickly and powerfully, his cum spraying the back of my throat in long thick spurts.

we kissed briefly, him enjoying his own taste on my lips, before he went down on me. he knew exactly what to do with a it and worked my throbbing wet cock expertly, using all his mouth, his lips, tongue and even his teeth to bring me to an astoundingly strong orgasm, shaking my whole body and rattling the bed. he pulled away as i came, it’d been days since i’d had any, and i splattered his face and open smiling mouth with hot sticky cum, gasping and panting and trembling as i did.

we kissed, finished the joint in the ashtray and fell happily asleep.